


tennessee is a landlocked state, but rose hill is actually in north carolina

by thotteri



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Red Flag Undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-19 18:49:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20662019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thotteri/pseuds/thotteri
Summary: Harley and Peter fuck in Harley's new old house.





	tennessee is a landlocked state, but rose hill is actually in north carolina

**Author's Note:**

> au where i don't hate the characters i write about.

“You know the little planet made of diamonds? Janssen?” Harley asks. His car starts down a road they’ve _maybe_ been down seven times now, but it’s equally likely that they’ve just past seven different all new concert bars. It’s Nashville. There’s a new one every week.  
  
“Fifty-five Cancri A?” Peter responds with his all-clever, all-knowing, god-gifted brain that makes Harley’s heart swell. His fingertips dance along the edge of his seatbelt and it’s just so beautiful because his knuckles are wide and scarlet where his fingers are narrow and pale and Harley wants to slip his own fingers between them, kiss every hair that sprouts from the dorsum.  
  
“Cancri _E_,” Harley takes a left this time. Hopefully they’ll find a way out of this labyrinthine city. “It’s just, it’s made out of diamonds and everyone throws a fit because wow, diamonds–”  
  
“I thought everyone threw a fit because it was the first planet outside the Solar System to properly be analyzed.”  
  
Harley grins meekly. “There’s that, but that’s not my point–”  
  
“Exit to this junction is there, by the way.” Peter points at a lane that definitely wasn’t there before, places his left hand on Harley’s arm and _Lord_ why is there a direct connection to his skin cells to the monsters in his stomach leaping from organ to organ?  
  
“The point- The point- The point-” His tongue trips over all the excitement and the roadblock over his lungs and Harley has to sigh just to get past the heat rising sporadically from his neck. “_The point is_,” he finally gets out, “Technically, Earth is made of diamonds and we come from that, you know? Like, from the start of the start of the start, we come from the ground and from the stars and we’re stardust and we’re iron atoms and diamonds and gold, we’re–” He has to turn to look at Peter. Look at him with his short gelled hair that sparkles bronze in the sunlight and the sweat building along the edges of his forehead and thin-lip smile that constantly and consistently kills Harley. “We’re special, y’know?” he says quietly.   
  
“Are we now?” His lower eyelids tighten around the lower half of his irises and god, Harley wants to touch him, _god, _Harley wants to kiss him and while he’s never found the right road by himself since he got his car at eighteen, he probably could find if he kissed Peter. But he can’t kiss Peter yet because he can’t find the right road.  
  
“Catch twenty-two,” Harley mumbles.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing, nothing.” He grins. “Actually, I’m lost.”  
  
There's probably something embarrassing about the fact that Peter has a much easier time getting out of Nashville and onto a highway towards Rose Hill. His daddy might have joked about Harley losing all his Tennesseean in Jersey and his mom might have sighed because she always sighed, but Harley doesn't mind. Even if he did see all the signposts that Peter is diligently following, he probably wouldn't be able to read them anyway. But now that his hands aren't clutching the steering wheel, there's no reason to _not_ be locking lips with Peter and holding him close enough to feel the rise and fall of his chest. Apart from the fact that Peter can't drive for shit and has to dedicate all his attention to avoiding potholes and trucks. Harley chews his bottom lip, forms a beat against his thighs, ignores the screams from all the nerves in his hand to touch the guy. At this rate, he will probably explode, but as long as Peter is with him, Harley doesn't see a single problem with flying apart into a dozen different pieces.  
  
They reach Rose Hill much sooner than Harley expected. Maybe he forgot how close Nashville was or maybe it just used to feel so much longer because every trip was with his mom, who always used car trips as an excuse for speeches or lectures about what a shitty son Harley was. Now that he thinks about it, they were probably lectures.  
  
“Is that the place?” Peter asks, slowing beside a small brick house. Harley shakes his head. They have to drive slow mainly because little kids out of school have conquered the roads with tree branches and water guns, but also Peter seems intent on asking if every house they pass is Harley's. It's only after the sixth house he asks about that Harley realizes Peter has never even been in this state before, let alone to his house.   
  
“We gotta reach the cul-de-sac first,” Harley tells him. “Then it's the bright yellow one at the end of it.”  
  
Peter raises his brows at bright yellow, but says nothing of it.   
  
Harley forgot that the last time the roof was bright yellow was a decade ago. Between bird shit, dust, rain marks and streaks, dried leaves and plastic bags, the roof has since become varying shades of brown, with that ancient bright yellow only just peaking through slits.  
  
“Is this the place?” Peter asks one final time.  
  
Harley nods, “Home, sweet home.”  
  
They leave their suitcases in the car because Harley cannot physically stop his hands from finding Peter's once they get out of the car. He's useless. He's also too useless to hold the key straight when he tries to open the front door, so Peter has to help him with that too.  
  
Peter obviously has boundaries. Harley doesn't know where they start. Which is why he gets a little terrified at times like these: when they're alone in a room and there's a little distance between them and all Harley wants to do is stay close to him. Is it too much to wrap arms around Peter's waist? Is it too much to press his lips against the spot beneath the angle of his jaw when they're both clothed? Peter is far too polite, too kind to outwardly say what is and isn't okay, so Harley finds himself rooted to the spot until Peter turns to look at him. “Is something wrong?”  
  
Harley shakes his head with a small smile, but Peter's probably already seen inside his brain. Or Harley's just incredibly fucking predictable and that's probably why Peter closes the distance himself, takes Harley's palms into his own two in that slow way that makes Harley tingle all over instead of flinching. Harley watches his feet as Peter leads him from the door. “Did you always live here?” Peter asks.  
  
“No,” Harley breathes. He probably has throat cancer, like his mom did, because it's a little too hard to talk. “I mean, yes. I mean, I stayed some other places too, but I don't remember much of them and this–” _This is the place where my blood has spilt between the floor to satisfy roaches and my own fractured mind._ “This is my home.”  
  
“Oh?” Harley only catches the rise in Peter's cheeks because he doesn't dare look any higher yet. “Where's your bedroom?”  
  
Harley chokes. “You don't wanna see that.”  
  
If Peter didn't before, he does once Harley says that. Harley's bedroom is little like a graveyard. There isn't much inside it anymore, since his mom must have cleared it out before she died. Wires are tangled under his desk like spaghetti and his bed isn't dressed. Harley's died here a dozen times before. He wonders if the sheets still show it.   
  
“I don't see anything wrong with it,” Peter says cheerfully.   
  
“Well, you're marrying me, so–” Harley loses track of whatever insult he was going to say. Peter's actually going to marry him. _That's fucking disgusting. _  
  
Peter tries to scowl at him, but can't hide it over his smile. He's beautiful; actually, heart-achingly and terrifyingly beautiful. So when Peter leads Harley to the narrow bed, all Harley can think is, Is this allowed? Am I allowed this? Did God give terrible men like himself good moments like these just to punish them for daring to want? Would his mom rise from the grave just to beat him for having someone in his room?   
  
His brain short-circuits when Peter places a hand on his cheek and draws him closer until Harley can feel warm breath tickling his lips and since when did breathing become more difficult than in, out, in, out? Since when did watching irises shimmer gold and bronze around black holes become so dizzying? Cancer is probably a contagious thing and Harley is probably dying.   
  
Peter kisses him, lips sliding between and over his mouth and Harley has to remind himself not to gape and squirm like a hooked fish. He buries his fingers in Peter’s fluffy locks and since God doesn’t strike him down as he expected, Harley lets himself kiss a little harder, twisting his tongue over Peter’s, and he lets himself push Peter against the wall and straddle his waist and slip his mouth down Peter’s neck, sucking little marks into the spot beneath his jaw and revelling in the low groans that escape Peter. Even though they've both got jeans on and it's more clumsy rutting than anything else, arousal explodes across Harley's neurons and he finds himself latching on to Peter's shoulders for stability.   
  
“We don't. . . Our stuff is. . .Suitcases.” It comes out of him in gasps and a grated voice like he feels the same way Harley does. Which is impossible because Harley's a clown and Peter is perfection and he never trembles, never loses his lungs to thick liquid panic and despair, but whatever. Condoms. Lube. Harley rises from Peter's lap, watches constellations form a crown over his head before heading to the car. He's got a shitty memory and an even shittier capacity to find things, but his dick is hard and Peter's probably undressing right about now, so he spends a couple of minutes beating around the contents of each suitcase until he finally acquires the K-Y jelly and a condom. He nearly trips a dozen times on his way back into the house.  
  
Peter undresses like a priest changing garments and it's objectively the least erotic thing in the universe. So thank god Harley is all poor taste and Christian upbringing and holy shit, he's taking his t-shirt off, because he'd probably lose his boner otherwise. Peter smiles at him and yes, Harley has no doubt been standing there clutching lube and a condom like a lost old man and also, he probably should have gotten two in case on rips, but it's too late now. The back of his neck is almost sore with all the heat of Tennessee and the unending burn of his own embarrassment.   
  
It's worth noting that Harley can't undress with all the ease and comfort that Peter has. Peter's all lean muscle and smooth skin and hair that hardly grows. Harley's more. . .well, he doesn't like to think about what's under his own clothes. Definitely fleshy things. Peter has to be the one to–_same bullshit everytime_–approach Harley like his neighbours used to approach wild buck and shoot him with a pair of warm hands that slide up his torso and cause him to shiver. “I'm an idiot,” Harley mumbles, raising his arm so his shirt can come off.   
  
“_My_ idiot,” Peter grins. It must be true, since Harley's chest caves in on itself at the notion of being owned by perfection, his beloved. He tries not to focus on his bare self. Peter is all about focusing on that very thing, groping and licking and sucking the surface of a grotesque, mapped by patterned scars and lines and folds and sunspots. Harley has to stay on top when Peter leads him to the bed again, so the latter doesn't try anything stupid like sucking him off.   
  
Harley doesn't waste time in tearing the condom out of its wrapper and fingering himself for a few seconds. Peter watches him doubtfully, “Is that enough?”  
  
Harley nods, holding Peter's length up beneath him. Okay, maybe it wasn't enough and maybe it stings sinking down on Peter and he can't fit the whole thing inside, but Peter drops his head back and lets out a soft moan, so Harley must be doing something right. He presses his palms down on Peter's narrow chest, lifts himself before sinking back down again. “Gonna make you feel good,” Harley says, more of a vow than actually talking to Peter, but Peter nods nonetheless, squirming as Harley enters a stable rhythm.  
  
Peter's the kind of guy who calls the scribbles of a three-year old art and hangs it up on a wall–and ignoring that thought because it's fucking gross that Peter and Harley might ever find themselves with a three-year old and that three-year old's art and a wall for all three of them–Harley doesn't exactly trust Peter half-choking-half-squealing his name, but it's nice to think he has some value despite his general worthlessness. Peter wraps a hand around Harley's cock and Harley shudders, head dropping past his shoulders because all the blood from his brain is now in his groin. Is that why God hates masturbation so? Harley grunts, “I can't, can't hold on if you. . . Fuck, I wanna come with you.”  
  
“Why?” Peter laughs, or breathes hard–Harley can't tell, but he doesn't mind.  
  
“Because. . .” There's an answer in his brain and it stays right there, whatever lobe it's in, because Harley can't think past the hand jerking him mercilessly. He clutches at Peter's wrist, pausing to catch his breath. “Just wait, okay?”  
  
Harley lowers himself until Peter's bottoming out inside of him and he's shuddering again from both the sharp pain and sudden pleasure coursing through his nerves. He lets out an ugly strangled cry and then Peter's controlling the two of them, hands pressing marks into Harley's waist and while there definitely wasn't enough lube, the feel of being thrust into like little more than a sex doll clouds his mind with a primal inebriation.   
  
“I love you,” Harley says.  
  
“Yeah?” Peter gasps.  
  
“And not just when we're fucking,” he continues. Peter snorts. “Like, when– Like, I'm– Like, you're everything to me and I want to give you the world and shit– Like. . .” Peter probably doesn't get it. They're entirely different species. Peter's perfect, so his myocardium is strong enough carry the weight of a few trillion cells screaming,_ I love you, I love you, I love you._  
  
“I love you, too.” Peter tells him. Definitely a lie, but whatever. It's enough for Harley, watching Peter's face twist in pleasure, swollen lips parted and thick brows furrowed over eyes squeezed shut. And it's enough that he doesn't die from the embarrassment of his own seed spilling onto Peter's stomach or the burning pain in his ass as he comes down from all the ecstasy. He hisses as he drags himself off of Peter and lies on his side to fit on the bed. Peter lies on his side too, so there's space enough for them both. Silence blankets them.  
  
“I love you,” Harley repeats, because he's even worse with silence than he is with words.   
  
“I know,” Peter tells him. Definitely a truth.


End file.
